3:57 pm | 12 July 2004 | your rhubarb and custard verses

Good King Mob t-shirt I made this weekend

CRIME IS THE HIGHEST FORM OF SENSUALITY

Reviews of Recently Intaken Media in One Modifier, One Adjective, One Noun, and One Quote

Napoleon Dynamite : Pathos-ridden anachronistic gooberism. "Flipping idiot! God!!"
Anchorman : The Legend of Ron Burgundy: Spot-on absurdist hilarity. "You smell like Bigfoot's dick."
Kill Bill, vol. 1 : Unimpressively hyperbolic eye-candy. "I don't remember any quotes because I was too hungover and fell asleep, Tarantino, you predictable-ass bastard; good production design, though."
The Streets, "Original Pirate Material" : Mashed, ultrafit anti-geezerism! "You can't do half, my crew laughs/At yer rhubarb and custard verses/You rain down curses but I'm waving/Yer hearse is driving by."
The Wrens, "Meadowlands" : Wallowlicious indie mopecore! "A wasted share of shots at high-tide heaven."
Jonathan Lethem, "The Happy Man" (short story) : 98% mind-balowing inventiveness. "Nothing means anything. That's what makes it Hell."

Perils of genius

Jeremy: Here's something to consider while you are imaginarily building your cyborg brainchips or whatever: how about, instead of your horrible memory-recording device (that would do nothing but enable people such as myself to wallow in a cyclical hell of nostalgia and regret), you create an IQ output equalizer that would allow smart people to only apply 112 IQ points at work, so as not to TOTALLY GET KILLED by INSANE, UNREALISTIC DEMANDS by higher-ups with NO SENSE or concept of what is possible. See, the problem is that when you're smart you're encouraged to show off and be smart all the time, and it's efficient to be a genius so you do it, but eventually, and EVERY DAMN TIME, your boss starts to expect superhuman, random things of you, simply because you've performed, you know, hyperfast feats of data recall in the past, or whatever, so when she languidly points at you and says "Show Ian the Steel House," referring to (what you later discover, after a half-hour of COMPLETELY JUSTIFIED research) is a pair of photographs among 600 others that were not even LABELLED or REFERRED TO at ANY POINT as "the Steel House" by ANYONE, EVER, you don't freak out. I know that I am super-sweet at desk jobs but how about you get real, for serious. God. See, now, if I'd had the HoserChip� Implant, I could have been working all along like a normal person, just pushing shit around with paperclips, and nobody would even THINK about coming to me and being like "Hey, look through these 160 PDFs and make sure they're okay for Germany." Even though I have worked here for a couple of months now, I can guaran-ass-tee that the preceding statement makes as much sense to me as it does to you. Dammit!

Server comments

"Rob is Ruby's #1 waiter, and our secret boyfriend. Later we will write our names as Mrs. Rob's Last Name. Five stars." Then Rob ran all the way from the diner to the movie theatre to give me my sweet aviators back! Awww, Rob.

Wildfire

I am pleased to say that the plan with the modern art flyer/broadsheet/pamphlet/trading card things is going pretty well, as in (unlike the vast majority of my poor lovechild-fetusy plans) i'm actually working on it. I think Joseph Beuys will be #1 just because he's already finished, but I kind of wanted to hold out for Duchamp since he is my personal #1. At any rate, I will be needing street teams to disseminate this stuff--which involves all of setting a stack down at a cool coffeeshop or bar or, for the truly motivated, taking them to a show. Seriously, that's it. The only contingency is that you MUST guarantee that they will not sit around your filthy-ass apartment, gathering dust, cat hair, and coffee-cup rings, until you shamefacedly toss them, or your roommates use them all for phone messages. This gon' cost me scrilla, foo! At any rate, if you think you would maybe like to do that, leave me a comment or email my sweet ass. I promise to cut back on the cracks about smallpox blankets. Whoa, that last sentence would make a sweet rap. SORTED!

Various pains

Can I briefly/vaguely ask why the body is itself so Catholic, i.e., why a weekend of fun on so many levels must be accordingly paid for with a whole world of various pains on corresponding levels? Because: owtch.

Possible titles for new chapbook

"Diamonds Are For Assholes"
"Young, Glum, & Full of Rum"
"Coal-Mine Canary"
"Time Wounds All Heels"
"Hindsight is 20-Gauge"
Dammit, I had thought of a really good one, and then I forgot it. Who did I tell to remember it? Andy? Huh? Fuck. Anyone?

Good, great

This sweatery-vesty mohair-tank-toppy built-in-scarf-havingy thing, which was looking all Marc Jacobs this morning, not only (I just realized) makes me look like a yeti--a fat yeti--but is also giving me a rash. Awesome. I'm out. clm.